


Drat It All

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 03:26:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14991728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: Holmes finds himself on the receiving end of Mrs. Hudson's wrath.  Wriggle as he might, there is only one thing left to do.





	Drat It All

The early summer of 1884 was – I declared to myself – quite too hot, and still only in June. The London streets were scorching, steaming; the air hung sullenly in layers, so that the taller man might prosper rather better than the short with his ability to cast his head above the choking parapet. 

Being shorter, I remained within our rooms at Baker Street, with the windows flung wide open and the air from this grand height infinitely cooler and far preferable. Seated on the sill and looking out, therefore, I was feeling quite content until the maelstrom returned home from who knew where.

“Watson!” came the strangled, strident cry. “Oh, Watson, drat it all.”

I turned my head towards the door, and observed my friend, the great detective Sherlock Holmes, in all his hot and bothered glory.

“Good morning, Holmes,” I said. Then: “You missed breakfast.” 

“I don't care about beastly breakfast,” he replied. “I'm hot, and I'm cross, and I've just had a row.”

“A row? With whom?”

“With Mrs. Hudson. The silly old trout.”

Holmes crossed the sitting-room, all flailing arms and shedding waistcoats as he shucked down to his shirt sleeves. “Phew!” said he. “Oh, phew! That is much better.” He sat beside me on the sill and lit a cigarette.

“Please don't call our landlady a silly old trout,” I said, frowning.

“Well, why ever not? I'm quite certain that she calls me far worse.”

“What was your row about?” I enquired.

My friend exhaled a plume of pique, and paused to nibble on a fingernail. “Is that important? I suppose you'd think so, because you're nosey. I'm surprised you didn't hear it, with your eagle ear.”

“Eagle _eye_ ,” I corrected. “Should we say, rather, my _'bat-like'_ ear? I didn't hear anything,” I added.

Holmes ignored me. “I had just returned from the tobacconist, and hardly set foot upon the stairs, when I was absolutely set upon. Sharp teeth and everything.”

I blinked. “Mrs. Hudson _bit_ you?”

“No, but she may as well have done. What is the difference, whether we bleed on the outside or the inside, my friend, eh? Watson, didn't you hear _anything_ , really? You must be as deaf as a parrot.” (He hesitated then, and looked at me sharply.) “Our esteemed landlady,” he continued, “honked her way out of her rooms, and honked twofold across the hallway, and was still honking when she reached me, whereupon she grabbed me by the elbow, Watson. The _elbow_.”

“Oh dear,” I said. “Not the elbow. She must have been very angry.”

“She was. Didn't I just tell you so. Well, after she had done with grabbing my elbow and giving it a shake, do you know what she said? Of course you don't, because your ears are filled with cotton-wool. She said _'I've had enough, Mr. Holmes, really I have, I've had enough. I really have.'_ Which, might I point out, was not a particularly auspicious opening for a benevolent conversation. Rather repetitive, in fact.”

Holmes stubbed out his cigarette, then immediately filled and lit his pipe. He shrugged his shoulders at my frown. “Anyway,” said he, plucking briefly at one trouser leg to admire a coloured sock, “after all of THAT, and just when I thought I might be able to effect my escape, I was roundly informed that apparently – apparently, Watson, mark you – I was guilty of a handful of domestic crimes that could not go unpunished.”

“Being what, exactly?” I wished that my friend might spit it out, as it was almost time for lunch.

Counting off upon his fingers, Holmes droned out his misdemeanours. “Apparently, I scratched the enamel off the bath tub. Apparently, I broke six rods upon the balustrade. _Apparently_ , I ruined the front door lock with acid. Apparently--”

“Holmes!” I interjected, appalled. “Did you do all of those things?”

“Yes.” 

“Then why, in the name of heaven, did you say... oh, never mind.” I wiped my hand across my forehead. “Why did you ruin the door lock with acid?”

“I lost my key and I couldn't get out. It didn't work, by the way, so I can't see how Mrs. Hudson can tell me it's ruined.” Holmes smirked. “I know what you're going to say, Watson. And yes, I could have used my lockpicks. I absolutely could have. The thing is, my dear fellow, --”

“-- You lost those too.”

“I am afraid so.” 

I looked at my friend there on the sill, seated beside me. I was not sure what I should say or do. My impulse was to throttle him, but I am, I think, a gentleman. “Holmes,” I said. “You are an idiot.”

He nodded sadly. “Yes, I know.”

“You must apologise immediately.”

“Watson, I am exceedingly sorry, I am rueful and ever so--”

“Not to me, you flaming lunatic. To Mrs. Hudson!”

He recoiled. “No! You do it.”

“You fall into these tremendous pickles, and then you expect me to pull you out of them. Well, I refuse this time. Point blank. You must take responsibility.”

“I shall write her a delightful _I.O.U._ , on embossed letterhead. I shall buy her a quarter of pink sugar pigs. I shall attach a 'please' and a 'thank you' to every sentence.” He shuddered. “What _else_ could the woman want? My front teeth and signet ring?” 

I patted his knee. “I'm sure it won't come to that. Just write the note, please, at least. I assume that your wallet is a fly-trap, as usual? Well, I thought so. The note, then. The sooner the better.”

I stood over my friend as he sat at his desk with his pen in his hand, his tongue sticking out as he pouted in thought.

“Watson,” said he, “I don't like being humble.”

“No, Holmes,” I replied, “I don't suppose that you do.”

He was silent once more as his nib scratched the paper. There were many pauses and grunts before the final grand flourish.

“There,” said my friend, “It is done. It was horrid.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Would you please let me read it?”

I wrestled it from his iron grasp, and took it to the window where the light might offer vantage.

It was brief and succinct. It was tear-stained and blotted. It almost impressed me. Not fully, but almost.

“Holmes,” I said, softly. “It is almost poetic. You must have meant every word.”

He sniffed once, cleared his throat. “Must I still buy her the sugar pigs then?” he enquired.

“I think so,” I said. 

“And the pleases and thank yous?”

“Without any doubt.”

He sighed, in great pain, for the latter came hard to his bohemian soul. He thrust the sheet into an envelope, addressed it, and then held it out. “Go on, Watson, I implore you.”

I carried it to the door and down the stairs and to the threshold, where I knocked upon the parlour.

The door opened, and Mrs. Hudson peeped out, smiling. She nodded wisely.

“My apology, I think,” she said. “Oh, doctor, did you have to wring it out of him?”

We chuckled.

“He finds these things quite difficult,” I whispered, in a confidence. “But you know what he is like. He has a good heart, despite it all.”

The lady winked, gave me a nod. “I know full well,” said she. “My goodness, though, he makes me cross sometimes. He is quite the strangest gentleman I've met in all my life.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” I said, slowly, “you never spoke a truer word.”

And I bowed, and turned away, and headed on back up the stairs to fresh insanity; the oddest smile upon my face.


End file.
